Rydian Hawke
by Darbracken
Summary: Fenris muses in his thoughts of Rydian Hawke, a man he is both confused and compelled by.
1. Empty House

Hawke, or perhaps more familiarly, Rydian Hawke, was a nuisance. The man was a perpetual annoyance, and so how the man came to be at the forefront of his thoughts nearly every night was a mystery. When their paths had first crossed, the first thing Fenris had noticed was the feathers of ivory hair that crowded around his surprisingly attractive features. Grace and power had exuded from the man as he destroyed the cretins in his path with the ease of cutting down weeds. Then Hawke had spoken. Whilst he wasn't sure what he expected… the cocky attitude and constant ridicule seemed to sit uneasily in a form that was naturally built to lead, to command, and to demand respect.

"Just what we need, more bloody enemies." Hawke had groaned even as he strode forwards into battle, never one to hide behind his companions. Despite his inability to take anything seriously, the human was a superb archer. It had taken a while for Fenris to realise it was always the bodies closest to him that bore the distinctive crimson stripe in the arrow's fletch that belonged to Hawke. At first he had rationalised that the man was merely protecting him, as a warrior was a desirable companion. Slowly though he had become aware of more potent reactions towards him that forced him to reconsider.

Heat often crawled down his spine, certain that steely platinum orbs were locked intently on him. Only once had he caught the rogue's gaze and the intensity had made him shudder. Hawke never looked at Varrick or Anders with such darkness and unbridled... well, the elf couldn't even put a name on it but desire didn't seem to wholly explain it. Yet other than brief touches to check on his wounds he never sought to push Fenris down, though it was no secret that he found other men to be arousing. The stories of Hawke's prowess often had the Blooming Rose atwitter, some male or another would be unable to walk for a week, bemoaning their fate. The rogue never dipped in the same pool twice – or so the gossip went.

Despite his battle-hardened appearance, Hawke was a peacemaker; where possible, he attempted to avoid fights and tried to keep everyone happy. Unfortunately it seemed the cursed, mage bastard that Hawke insisted taking everywhere with them was intent on disagreeing with everything he did. Fenris loathed Anders, for what he was and what he represented. Hawke always cheekily smirked as he asked him who else would kiss his booboos better when someone stuck an arrow into him. It was that type of teasing that silently drove Fenris insane. The idea of Anders kissing anywhere for any reason made him feel like slamming his fist into Hawke's face for ever inserting that scenario into his thoughts.

It had been the incident with the slavers that had first sent Fenris down the dark path he was now treading. Hawke had tried to placate them, jovially dismissing their detested presence as one of the inevitabilities of the world. They had clashed afterwards and he had ended up immuring himself in his manor, refusing to speak further to the man. Though he had felt it, impossible sorrow had briefly flitted through silvery eyes as he had slammed the door in his face. Stupid human, how could he ever understand?

In the morning Kirkwall had been in uproar, dozens of bodies had littered the streets, murdered brutally. Despite his natural inclination to remove himself from human society, the whispers intrigued him and so he had gone to inspect the scene. Every one of the slavers had been slaughtered, entrails spilled across the stone slabs, mingling with other body parts. Even as a hardened warrior it chilled him, the blood smeared up the walls where fingernails had clung to rock, trying to escape their malicious attacker. And then he had seen it. A singular arrow with an unmistakable crimson strip, standing erect in the chest of the leader of the foul men.

Hawke never spoke of the incident but Fenris had known that he had been behind the massacre, that he had gone back to correct the wrong he had inflicted on him. Why the man would go to such lengths was beyond him; he certainly didn't want the human's pity. Such incidents became more frequent over time, even the smallest slight and furrow of his brow had sent the rogue scurrying to right his displeasing actions. Time had also made the human a much more proficient assassin, as it lead him to believe that what had happened to the slavers was done completely in cold blood. Even back then, Hawke could slit a throat proficiently.

Three years had passed; they had fought together, travelled together, ate and drank together and to his displeasure he had grown… fond of the human. It was no surprise to see Hawke, settled in one of his chairs when he had returned with the final bottle of Agregio wine in his cellars. The man had become a more and more frequent visitor; it was a wonder that the Blooming Rose was not missing its most prolific customer. Fenris has drunk straight from the bottle, passing it occasionally to the other to partake in the toast to his freedom.

Words had tumbled together as the alcohol had warmed his body and he had spoken of his past. It was the first time he had trusted anyone enough to divulge the information, the first time he had wanted to. Despite his usual smart mouth Hawke had sat there quietly, listened to him as though every word was of great importance. _"You're a handsome man Hawke, is there no one else that has your attention?"_ It had surprised him when he had merely shaken his head; after all he had been sure there would be droves of people vying for the assassin's attentions, especially now he had gone up in the world.

It occurred to him then, after he had finished speaking that he barely knew Hawke at all. Quick quips and a smiling façade had kept much of the human's past a mystery. Fenris knew of course that his younger brother had died just before they had met and that his sister had been taken into the custody of the Circle. Occasionally Bethany had spoken of their father, an apostate like she had been, also deceased. Outside of that though the elf knew little about the man who had the stature and poise of a warrior yet resorted to the beguiling tactics of a rogue.

Liquid stirred as the water of the bath began to chill; memories of their most recent interaction coming to the forefront. Had Hawke really propositioned him? Though he had laughed and coyly said perhaps he would indulge some other time he was now cursing himself. Slowly he pulled himself from the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. The house seemed that much vaster, lonely now that Hawke had left. If only he had swallowed his pride and trepidation and asked him to stay. Scars ached, long, calloused fingers trailed over the ribbons of pale flesh where lyrium had branded him.

Sinking down in his bed he let thoughts wander, scrapping fingertips down his abdomen, a shiver of pleasure and pain overtaking him. Would Hawke be this tender? Nails dug in, tracing the veins that magic burnt into him. Would he be brutal? Stain him with the colour of his blood, dominate him with those hands so used to murder? A nub swelled, begging his attention and so lightly he brushed it, having almost forgotten how satisfying the pleasures of the flesh could be.

Dry lips were licked, slowly unrolling the folds of towelling, anticipation building as dewed flesh was exposed to the warm air of the room. Yes, Hawke would touch –there- too; it was inevitable if the rumours were to be believed he was as proficient in his love making as he was at assassinations. Wet ivory strands were thrown back as tentatively he brushed his thumb over the tip of the roused length. Hot lips would cover his, demanding if his leadership style was anything to go by. Hawke would consume him. A heated flush of desire swept his abdomen as he imagined the battle for dominance that their tongues would wage.

Eventually the rogue would win he decided, push his smaller frame down… and touch. Fingers wrapped around his aching shaft, pumping slowly as the fantasies caught hold of him, not wishing to relinquish his control so easily. An arch of his spine pushed hips into the cradling palm, a dark sound tickling the back of his throat. A palm slid down the inner of his moist thigh, scraping the last droplets of his bath away, fingers daring to creep lower and swipe across puckered muscles.

A sharp breath was pulled in, too aroused to stop, even as the touch triggered shadowy memories. It would not be the same with Hawke, the desire flushing his form crashing through every barrier. Tightening his fist the languid strokes became more frantic, hips surging in time with the rhythm his imagination had set. Sweaty ivory strands would mingle together as he would be driven back towards the headboard, strong arms enfolding him, moulding him. Hawke would kiss him, savage and wild, tempered only by his affection, open him up as he pleased... thrusting into him time and time again until they would no longer be two bodies, but one surging mass of flesh. Deeper and deeper, the hard flesh would sear…

"Rydian!" Breathlessly he called out, his hand suddenly covered in hot, sticky fluid as he felt the quake of orgasm tremble his limbs. For a moment he laid there frozen, barely believing what he had just done. Lusting after a man he found in equal parts confusing, irritating and overconfident. As the air began to chill him, he cleaned away the evidence of his wanton desire. Fenris quivered briefly and then pulled the covers over his frame. Tomorrow was another day; tomorrow he would pretend that the human didn't intrigue him as much as he did. Tomorrow Hawke would be Hawke and not Rydian… but for tonight he would imagine Rydian curled up securely up against his back, holding him as they slept.


	2. Missing Links

I'm so sorry this has taken so long to write, it's been sat around in my folder for months awaiting some love. So this is the second chapter of Rydian Hawke's story, the first chapter of course was Fenris centric. This is a little bit of Rydian's background so we get to see what makes him tick. I wrote this before the legacy DLC came out so I have no idea if this will even fit in with the Hawke storyline but as Rydian is –my- Hawke this is how it happened for him. Next chapter hopefully won't take as long and will be mild Anders x Rydian. I love getting comments and reviews so please feel free to drop them in.

"_Get away Rydian!" Aghast he watched his father running the blade along his wrist, ribbons of vitae bursting forth to consume the first Templar. "Blood mage!" Arms wrapped around him, pulling him away without much strength, his mother weeping even as she tried to pry him away from the man she loved. Horror had consumed him, watching his men – those whom he commanded - thrown like ragdolls away from the apostate. Where had it all gone so wrong? His father wasn't this man. This depraved dog that snarled and lashed out viciously, rending limb from limb. Carver pushed the heavy doors together, Bethany pale and terrified forcing a broom handle through metal to jam them shut._

_He should go out there, face down the blood mage, any Templar worth their salt would have. "Please Rydian, please." Broken sobs stilled him, his mother utterly inconsolable, unable to bear the thought of her eldest son clashing with his father, tearing into one another as though bitter rivals. In the end he had been unable, unwilling to leave her. They huddled together, shuddering as the howls of the crazed mage rang through their estate, the stench of death thick in the air. Many had died that day but they had survived, albeit shamefully._

"_I should have you executed, coward." The snarling knight commander held all the venom and bile towards him that his father had towards those who had tried to compel him to join the circle. The only difference was it was tightly leashed, buried beneath the unyielding metal of his armour. "Worthless wretch, you allowed your men to die at the hands of an abomination." Faces were inches apart, the spittle flecking his countenance. "You are dismissed Hawke. Go and fuck some of those mages you love so much." Shame and anger flared as one, but the man's word was law and there was no place for him left in their halls. Not a man or women met his gaze as he gathered together his belongings and left. They all knew; the word if not on their lips firmly seared into their minds. "Traitor!"_

Breath choked him, panic suddenly swelling as his surroundings blurred and swirled at the edges of his vision. Perspiration had slicked fine robes to his pale flesh, twisted tightly around limbs with each thrash he'd made in the hold of the nightmare. Swiftly he sat up, heart hammering as platinum eyes fixed on the most distant wall, trying to make sense of the familiar but alien stone work. Very slowly he began to calm, the vision of bestial amber eyes fading from the forefront of his imagination. A shaky hand lofted and pressed to his damp face, realising that tears had blurred with sweat in the course of the dream.

Why now? That had been years ago, when he was young, vulnerable… before he had crafted himself an exquisite mask of humour that rode the dangerous edge between insulting and endearing. It had taken years for him to crawl slowly from taint his father had left on him, even now deep down he resented him; though it wasn't something he ever spoke of or alluded to. Breathing finally settled he laid back into bed, the lack of luminance through his window informing him that it was still in the small hours of the morning. Fitfully he drifted back to sleep, sheets curled tightly in his fists.

Morning found Rydian settled at his writing desk, thumbing through correspondence. Without much interest he sorted the envelopes into some sort of order, from the tedious to those with promise. Arun's head lifted, soft brown eyes looking up at his Master as a letter was twirled over and over in his grasp. A faint grunt from the Mabari brought his attention back to the present, focusing his gaze on the letter in his grasp. For a few days he had been reluctant to even open it but now he steeled himself and slipped the letter opener into the envelope and cut it open in one smooth motion. How alike it was to slitting a throat.

Unravelling the parchment he saw the familiar curves of his sister's writing sprawled across it. _"Dearest Rydian"_ it began, a wry tug of his lips given, he did not feel dear, he had in fact failed her. _"The circle is not so bad, it is warm here and there is plenty of food, even the beds are comfortable." _Unlike the scorn he knew the Templars would show towards each and every mage; that was never comfortable. They could be inhumane. Digits tightened their grasp about the paper, wishing he had been there, been able to prevent Bethany being seized. Guilt seized him, feeling somehow he could have prevented her being hauled away to the circle. She was not a blood mage but then his father hadn't been one either until… _"Sometimes I teach the children." _Realising he had failed to registered several sentences Hawke reached up, scrubbing tired eyes with his thumb and index finger.

Anders. If there was anyone he could confide his confusion and pro-mage sentiments to it would be the apostate. Even if he longed to see Fenris the man would never understand his deep seated unease towards his sister's incarceration. Mages were dangerous, to be locked away or better yet killed in the elf's eyes. In his turmoil he couldn't bear to see disdainful emerald eyes watching him, so instead he tucked the half read parchment into his pocket and made his mind up to visit Dark Town. Just as he was about to step through the door the grubby figure of his uncle appeared, darkening his horizon. "Maker, of all the rats I didn't wish to see why did that one have to scuttle in from the cellar?"

Lips pressed together, attempting to smile as his uncle pushed passed him. Though he was often fond of baiting the man, he found this morning the jovial façade he wore had a number of hairline cracks. "Well if it isn't my favourite family member. Oh that's right; you're my only family member not dead, incarcerated or my mother. Hello uncle, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" A displeased sneer marred the man's face as he looked up at his nephew; on some level resenting his new found comfort, though mostly because he seemed to be the only member of the family that saw him for what he was. "Have you seen your Mother, boy?"

Come to think of it Rydian hadn't in fact seen her for a few hours but his patience was thin and he just wanted to speak to someone who didn't think slitting the throat of every mage was acceptable. "I haven't maybe she's out somewhere or she's found herself a love interest, she's a lady of leisure now, since we moved out of your home." Disintegrating into a scowl it seemed the man was incapable of taking the hint and instead loitered, still watching Rydian. "She received a bouquet of white roses earlier." Somewhere in the recesses of the rogue's mind something flickered, a deep primal sensation of unease, but it was quickly snuffed out as he brushed passed his relative. "Well isn't that lovely, like I said she's probably just out courting and I am far too busy to run around after her. She's more than capable of looking after herself." With that Rydian stepped out onto the street, letting the door close in the face of his uncle who looked rather like he was chewing upon a wasp.


End file.
